


Save the Last Dance

by stickyrice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance, mythea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9275261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickyrice/pseuds/stickyrice
Summary: She will always save the last dance for him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing ... kudos to all the talented creators of the stuff that we write about.
> 
> Points if you know the song that inspired ... not that difficult lol

He had sworn to himself that what he wanted, what they both wanted, could not exist as long as she worked for him, but it was getting harder and harder to remember that, and on nights like this, why remember at all.

The low light glistened off of the stem and silver wear; it bounced off of the crystal chandeliers, and bathed the room in soft glittering gold. Music played soft and slow. Bodies are pressed close together and sway to the rhythm of the music.

He stood at the far end of the room, champagne flute tightly clutched in one hand; the only sign of tension in his body, the whiteness around his knuckles as he clutched it a little too tightly. His mind was only paying half a mind on the conversation that was going on around him; just another brainless idiot trying to gain his favour. The better part of his attentions was focused on her.

Every twirl of her body, and every sound of her tinkling laughter caught his attention, and he couldn’t help but drag his eyes towards her.

He would look at her with longing each time she twirled around the dance floor, always on the arm of another man; talking, smiling; laughing with another man, wishing that it was him that held her so gently; that held her so closely; that got to feel her arms around him.

She loved to dance; her eyes would light up and sparkle as she was twirled and floated across the dance floor. He despised dancing, not from a lack of talent mind you, but rather because of the human interaction. However, he would dance with her until the sun came up.

But at these parties with all eyes watching and all ears open, as long as she worked for him, he would not dishonour her by holding her too closely; too tenderly; too softly. Rather he would hold her at arm’s length stiffly and step in time to a proficient waltz.

She would still smile at him just as sweetly, a twinkle in her eyes, but only her eyes; the aloof half smirk of the shadowy assistant planted firmly in place. She would give a small curtsy in thanks, and if her hand lingered a little longer than usual in his, as if willing him to pull her into his arms and press her to him tightly, no one noticed.

They would part ways, circulating in the crowd; prying secrets and promises from the unsuspecting. She would dance and laugh and smile and he would watch from afar with a disinterred glance.

At the end of the night, many a time, the bolder men would ask her if she is all alone and if they could take her home, but she would politely decline with that secretive smile and saunters off into the night.

\--------------------------------------------

Standing in front of the full length mirror of her wardrobe, she fingers the glittering teardrop necklace at her throat; a gift.

She feels him before she sees him; she feels the press of his body aligning perfectly into the curve of her back; feels the warm touch of his fingers sweep her hair to the side to bare her neck; feels his daft fingers slip the chain from around her throat; feels the tingle his lips leave as he presses his lips to the sensitive skin of the hollow just below her jaw bone.  

She leans back into him, her head falling to rest against his shoulder; if this gives him better access to sweep his tongue across the pulse at her throat, she was definitely not going to complain.

He slides his hands down her body; his palms coming to settle on the curve of her hips, pulling her closer still. His nose nuzzles the side of her neck; the hot puff of his breath as he hums a soft, quiet, wordless tune makes her dizzy with anticipation as their bodies start to slowly sway as one in perfect time.

She could be asked by one or one hundred men, but she will always say no. She knows who will be waiting at the car; will never forget who’s taking her home, and who’s arms she’s going to be, who’s arms she longs to take her in. She will always save the last dance for him.


End file.
